


Around For You

by ReluctantRavenclaw



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Actual Quotes from A.Ham, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Dear Theodosia Feelings, F/M, Family, Grief/Mourning, Hamilton Children - Freeform, Hamilton Family - Freeform, Hamilton Song Lyrics, Historical and Musical Canon, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt and comfort, It's Quiet Uptown Feelings, Reflection, Regret, The World Was Wide Enough Feelings, as historically accurate as possible, duels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-14 12:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9180982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReluctantRavenclaw/pseuds/ReluctantRavenclaw
Summary: "But what has become of our dear father? It is an age since I have heard from him or of him, though I have written him several letters..." (Alexander Hamilton to his brother, 1785)Alexander's father left him. Alexander left his own children. Are the sins of the father always destined to be repeated? In trying so desperately hard not to be his own father, an identical copy twenty years later, he fails to notice that he might just be passing on the same memories to his children, the very children he swore he'd never leave.





	1. My Father Wasn't Around

Alexander had never quite understood his father. He was never around enough when Alex was growing up and then, of course, he was suddenly up and gone before Alex was old enough to even start getting to know the man. He could never fathom or even begin to imagine why his father could have left his mother like that. Years together torn apart in a single evening, and gone by morning. In Alex's childish eyes, his mother was the greatest woman in the whole world and nobody could ever want to leave her, if he had the choice. It followed, at least in Alex's mind, that the fault must lie with him. Perhaps if he had made a greater effort with his father like James did, instead of continually shutting himself away with his books, then he would have had more of an inclination to stay. Alexander had very few friends in the world, even his own brother wasn't close with him, so maybe it should have come as no surprise that Father drifted away from him too.

As he grew older, lost his beloved mother, had James finally leave him once and for all, Alexander tried to understand his father. Whiling away the long hours working at the trading charter or the sleepless nights when he cried for his mother, his thoughts always turned to his other missing parent too. He wondered where Father was now, if he knew what had happened to Mother, if he would come back if Alexander wrote an eloquent enough letter. It was worth a shot, even if he had no address to send the letters to. When the hurricane came, his thoughts strayed once again to his father. He sent desperate prayers to a god he wasn't sure could hear him to send help. He prayed for his mother to save him, for James to find him, for his father to come home to him. 

But he was left alone, and perhaps then he should have understood that his father was not one on whom he should pin his hopes. In that one shining moment, however, he was too overcome with relief as the air grew still and the sky turned yellow, to think of much else. Perhaps he was too young and blind to realise that, despite all that had come before, his father hadn't finished hurting him yet. Alexander was much too busy writing himself off the island and into the new world of opportunity that America promised to be. He thought less and less of the family that left him behind, that he left behind too, so consumed was he by the colourful characters who so willingly accepted him as their own. In seemingly no time at all, a flamboyant French nobleman, an Irish tailor turned spy and a staunch abolitionist from a plantation in South Carolina had taken him into their midst. He had no need for a distant brother, not when these young men, in the space of a few short months, were more like brothers than James had ever been. And the tall, noble General for whom Alexander would gladly give his life in a heartbeat, was something akin to the kind of figure he'd never thought he'd get to have in his life again. Or ever. Was it enough? It could be. It was more than he'd ever had, for sure, despite his continued insistence that he shouldn't be referred to as anyone's son.

Then Miss Elizabeth Schuyler walked into his life and his family, his ideas of what that could mean, the concept, the physical, tangible thing, grew. Grew and expanded in ways that Alexander, bastard orphan Alex, could never have believed possible. Miss Schuyler -- _Eliza_ \-- very quickly became his family and his friend. She was all he needed to feel grounded, to feel supported, wanted, needed, loved. It was a new sensation certainly, but one Alexander could never bring himself to oppose. Eliza was his everything, and yet she also brought with her a whole extended family. A big sister, a little sister, parents who treated him like a son, cousins, aunts and uncles who more than filled up the church and the ballroom on the wedding day. If anyone noticed the distinct lack of Hamilton relatives, well, nobody said it aloud. 

He had his friends and, honestly, any room occupied by Laurens and Lafayette and Mulligan had the impression of being filled with at least twenty people. Even Burr put in a brief appearance, a fact which meant more to Alexander then even he understood. He accepted the congratulations from the many Schuyler relations, their handshakes and their tokens. He was introduced to all General Schuyler's colleagues with his beaming father-in-law's assurances that he was a young man worth keeping an eye on. He joked with Peggy and applauded Angelica's heartfelt toast. All the while, his left hand was tucked in Eliza's right, their fingers intertwined, her sweet voice in his ear, making it impossible to stop grinning like an idiot even for a second. 

Late on in the evening, when many of Eliza's -- _their_ \-- guests had retired, Alexander found himself in a rare moment alone. He accepted a glass of cold champagne and sat at an empty table content, for once in his life, just to sit and watch, a fond smile toying with his features. He watched as Eliza danced with General Schuyler, how he held her so gently, how she looked up at him with such love and respect in her eyes. For the first time in months, Alexander's thoughts strayed back to his father. He imagined his father coming to the wedding, shaking hands with General Schuyler, meeting his friends, dancing with his new daughter-in-law. The picture was indistinct, and it occurred to Alexander that his father didn't belong here. Not in America, not in the ballroom of the Schuyler mansion, maybe not even in Alexander's mind anymore. 

"I do hope you're saving your last dance for me, Captain Hamilton." 

He looked up to see the most welcome and beautiful sight in the whole damned world. Eliza Sch -- _Hamilton_ \-- his Eliza, smiling from ear to ear, her hand outstretched towards him.

"I'm saving all my dances for you, Betsey," he grinned, taking her hand and letting her pull him to his feet. "All my dances now and forever."

She laughed and rolled her eyes mockingly as he bowed low and kissed her proffered hand, like their first meeting all over again. "You do understand that we already had the wedding, don't you?" Eliza teased. "You don't have to say such things in an effort to impress me anymore."

"My darling, I am endeavouring to spend the rest of my life saying such things to impress you." And he meant it. Eliza wasn't just his love. She was his life, plain and simple.

"Oh, if you insist, I'm sure I could allow it," she smiled her warm, beautiful smile as he led out out onto the floor, the band striking up another tune in the background. 

No, Alexander never quite understood his father, but one cold January morning, a little over a year later, he understood even less. In fact, he didn't understand at all.

He spent the night pacing up and down the hall outside their bedroom, unable to sleep or even sit. He'd had a lot of sleepless nights in his time, but this felt like the longest by far. He'd never felt so helpless as he did then, on the wrong side of a closed door, listening to his wife, his sweet darling Eliza, screaming and crying, and knowing there was nothing he could do. Alexander wasn't allowed in, it wasn't his place apparently. All he could do was wait, something he was never particularly good at, and shout in over Eliza's cries, that she was doing so well and that he loved her and that he wasn't going anywhere. 

Just as the weak winter sun had begun to rise, illuminating the dark hall with its pale but persistent rays, the bedroom door opened and Alexander was given the greatest news of his life. He had a son. His son was here, in perfect health and happiness, just waiting to be introduced to his father, his mother apparently already smitten with the little fellow. Alexander burst into the room, all dignity and poise going straight out the window, and found Eliza, looking quite as radiant as the day he'd married her. Her dark hair was fanned out like a halo on the pillow, her face was flushed, she looked exhausted, and still she was beautiful. 

"Good morning, my dear," Eliza said quietly, the very essence of happiness radiating from her, despite her obvious and understandable exhaustion. "There's someone here I would very much like you to meet." 

It was the strangest feeling, but looking at the impossibly tiny bundle safely nestled in Eliza's arms, Alexander felt like he knew him already, like he was meeting an old friend after years apart. _You deserve a chance to meet your son._ Eliza had told him that once, but looking at his son, his child, his little boy, Alexander didn't feel like he deserved to meet him at all. What had he ever done to deserve either of them? His wife and his son. His family. A family all of his own. 

"Oh, Betsey," he whispered, his voice heavy. "Oh, Betsey, he's here and he's ours."

"Would you like to hold him?"

The loud, outspoken Alexander Hamilton found he couldn't speak, not one measly word, as the soft little bundle that was his son was passed to him. He felt wholly inadequate, totally undeserving, like his calloused, perpetually ink stained hands weren't quite enough to hold this tiny boy.

"You won't break him," Eliza laughed, even as her eyelids fluttered shut like she was drifting off to sleep. "Just be careful to support his little head."

So he did, the dark, downy hair impossibly soft against his fingertips, and he looked at his son. He was Eliza in miniature and Alexander knew that when his son opened his eyes to look at the world for the first time, he would have his mother's black eyes too. The baby shifted a little, and Alexander suddenly stiffened, terrified all of a sudden that he was doing it wrong, but his son merely went on sleeping, one small fist closing round his father's finger.

In that moment, everything seemed to become clear, because it was in that moment Alexander knew he would do anything, absolutely anything in the world, for his son. Everything he'd done up until that point hadn't been enough, from here on in he'd have to work so much harder. The world was a terrible place, nobody knew that better than him, and so much needed to be done to make it fit for his son. This -- he -- was the reason they'd fought and bled and killed. And he'd go back to the frontline in a heartbeat if it meant making the world better and keeping this little one safe. 

"Good morning, my boy," Alexander murmured. "Oh, you just outshine that morning sun outside, don't you?"

It was a while before anyone spoke again. Alexander was content, ridiculously happy and content, just to sit on the bed, Eliza's head on his shoulder, his son in his arms, his hand resting on top of Eliza's, keeping their little boy, their little family, safe.

"He still needs his name," Eliza said eventually, never once taking her eyes off the baby.

"Yes. I suppose he does."

For the life of him, Alexander couldn't think up a suitable name. Nothing sounded good enough, nothing could ever live up to this little one. This little one who was going to grow up to change the world, he already knew it. What could they call a child like that?

"Alexander?" Eliza sounded hesitant, almost a little worried. "I thought perhaps, if it pleases you, I thought we might name him after my father? If you didn't object, of course."

He frowned. "Why should I object -- oh." He understood at once. Eliza was anxious that he'd take offence about their son, their first born son, being named for her father, rather than his. But he had no objections, none whatsoever. General Schuyler was a great man and honourable man; one who loved his children dearly and did great things for his country and welcomed a bastard immigrant with no credentials into his family with open arms. And, of course, Alexander was forced to think of his own father; his own father who must have held his sons like this, must have felt their heartbeats beneath his fingertips, pictured their futures, chose their names. He went through all those immense, life changing, earth shattering moments and still he left, left both his sons just for a few short years later. Alexander was named for his grandfather, a great man by all accounts, just as his son would grow to be. 

"Philip Hamilton," Alexander said it aloud for the first time, testing its suitability. It fit. It sounded right. "Welcome to the world, Philip Hamilton, we're very pleased to have you."

"I quite agree," Eliza murmured, tracing one gentle finger down the baby's -- down Philip's cheek before falling asleep, her head still on her husband's shoulder.

The midwife, whose presence in the room Alexander had barely registered until now, approached, offering to take the baby, to take Philip, citing that Mr Hamilton must be tired too, but he declined. They were fine here, just the three of them together on the bed, Alexander, Eliza and Philip Hamilton safely tucked in between them. Truth be told, he was exhausted, but there was no chance in hell that he was leaving. He listened to the sounds of his wife and son breathing deep and even in their sleep, and couldn't help himself from thinking, once again, of his father, as much as he was loathe to do anything of the sort. 

"My father -- he -- he was not often there," he found himself saying, to his sleeping infant or himself he couldn't say. "He should have been there. I won't do that to you, my boy. I give you my word. A promise must never be broken, and I will never make you one which I shall not keep as far as I am able. Remember that, Philip, I swear that I will be around for you. I will always be here and you will always fill me with pride, no matter what you set your mind to." 

"You believe he can understand you?" Eliza whispered, half opening one eye and giving him a lazy, easy smile.

"Of course he can," Alexander laughed. "I'll have you know our boy is highly intelligent."

"With a name like Philip Hamilton, he could hardly be anything but highly intelligent."

Later in the day, still too keyed up to sleep, Alexander perched on the end of the bed, Eliza propped up by pillows, nursing Philip, and he wrote. The parchment was balanced precariously across his knees, his pen wavered wildly, and he smudged practically every other word in his haste. He fired off three quick letters to Laurens, Lafayette and Mulligan who had all been waiting for this news practically since the wedding night. He then paused for a moment before deciding to write to General Washington too, because His Excellency would surely be overjoyed to hear of his news. Alexander even sent a polite little note to Aaron Burr because he was fond of the man for all his odd ways, and he'd heard that Burr's wife was expecting their first child too. Eliza's parents and sisters had already been notified and were coming to visit them in the morning. All their family had been informed. 

Then, for the first time in years, Alexander wrote to his father. Nothing fancy or particularly friendly, just a brief note to let James Hamilton know that his son was alive and well. His father didn't even know that he'd gotten off the island, sailed to America, risen through the ranks of the military, started a family. So he told him, because everyone should know about this newly formed family of three. He signed off, shoved the letter in an envelope addressed to his father's family in Scotland before he lost his nerve. Alexander set aside his pen and paper and settled back against the pillows, beside his wife and son, beside Eliza and Philip. Where he belonged.

Things were supposed to get easier with practice, that was how the saying went, but that clearly didn't apply to the process of bringing a child into the world. Not if the screams and cries that once again came from behind the closed door two years later. Alexander was once again to be found pacing up and down the hall, his mind and heart heavy with the panic that had taken up residence on the day Philip was born and hadn't left since. That worry had increased tenfold since they'd discovered that Eliza was expecting their second child. He surely hadn't been this panicked the first time round, but then again, he'd been away. He'd had redcoats breathing down his neck, an ever growing death toll, the General's orders to follow, men to keep alive. But now he was here. Alexander went to the office in the mornings, and came home in the evenings and watched as his wife prepared for the new arrival. 

The world had changed dramatically in such a short period of time. The retreating British had been singing the truth as it turned out. The new world they had fought for was here, the world they'd fought and killed and died for. The might of America grew, the British empire shrank and the Hamilton family grew, even as Alexander's friends, his surrogate family during the revolution, began to slip away.

There would be fewer letters to send announcing the birth of this little one. Alexander's business and professional contacts seemed to be ever on the rise, the lawyers of New York City either held him in high esteem or couldn't stand him. They were no friends of his. Burr, of course, seemed to change his stance on that particular subject almost daily. The General was increasingly hidden behind the staggering workload that came with governing a new nation. Mulligan had gone back to finish his apprenticeship in the city and they saw each other on occasion, but their friendship had lost the fervour that the revolution had sparked. The Marquis had gone back to his beloved France in the hope of bringing about the same triumphs America had just achieved. And Laurens, poor dear Laurens, had never come home from the war.

But Alexander had the Schuylers, he had his own family and that could be enough. He loved Eliza and Philip with a fierceness that almost scared him at times. 

It was the thought of his second child that scared him most of all.

He loved his wife and son with all that he had, loved them in a way that he hadn't been able to in a very long time, but now they would have another child. What if he had nothing left to give? What if he was done, used up, spent? His father had two children, that he knew of, two children that were abandoned and Alexander knew what it was to be the second child ignored by his father. He couldn't, wouldn't, do that to any child of his. He didn't want to be his father, an identical copy twenty years on, but perhaps such things were passed from father to son, like the family name.It occurred to him, as the long night wore on towards the dawn, that maybe things had gone wrong between his mother and father as their family grew. Perhaps the fault really did lie with him, as he'd often suspected as a child. No child of his would ever be made to feel like that, he made a solemn vow in that moment. 

He needn't have worried. The sheer panic of it all made his chest feel tight and his weak legs somehow managed to carry him into the room, but then he met her. The minute he met his newest child, his darling little daughter, he knew he loved her. He would love her with all his heart for all his life. Alexander had enough, more than enough, to give to Eliza and Philip and now Angelica too. Or Angie, as she was quickly christened by her besotted brother that afternoon, since he couldn't quite manage her full name just yet. Alexander, Eliza, Philip and Angie Hamilton. That could be enough. More than enough. 

It was remarkable how times and situations changed, how one's entire world could be turned upside down in the blink of an eye because of one or two terrible decisions. When had he decided that his family, the family he'd always dreamed of and wanted, wasn't enough for him anymore? In what world could a loving wife and six wonderful children not be enough?

In his world apparently. In his world of hot summer evenings in the city, with a young woman in a red dress on his doorstep, and his inability, or unwillingness, to say the word "no." In his world where his opponents could back him into an impossible corner, and the only way out was to write that damned pamphlet. He'd thought that had been the only way out, at least. He didn't know if it was worth it now. His political career was in ruins and his professional, and private, reputation shattered beyond repair. If that had been the only fallout, Alexander could have lived with that, but it went further. Much further.

In that frenzied, feverish moment of writing down all the sordid details, he hadn't considered the impact it would have upon his family. Truly he hadn't, it shamed him now, but he hadn't. He hadn't expected to come home that evening to find an eerily silent house. Usually on his return home, if it wasn't late enough that all the children had been in bed for hours, they'd come hurtling down the stairs, throwing themselves at him from all directions. Eliza, sensible as always, would take his papers and books from him, leaving him free to crouch down to the children's level, take whoever was nearest into his arms and hear all about their day. 

The day the pamphlet was published, however, the house was silent. He let himself, waited for the footsteps on the stairs, the excited yells of, "Papa's home!" and found none. Instead he found Eliza upstairs, her eyes red, clutching little William, just a few weeks old, to her chest.

"I packed your bag," she said quietly, resolutely not looking him in the eye but focusing on William instead.

"Eliza --" 

"You can sleep in your office instead tonight. Go back to work, Alexander."

"The children --"

"Will be coming upstate to my father's with me in the morning. They deserve to be away from this city where, perhaps, they won't be accosted in the street and laughed at for their father's misdeeds."

Alexander was caught totally off guard. "What?"

Eliza's voice was cold but her breath hitched like she was a hair's breadth away from tears. "Philip and Angie were on their way back from town this afternoon. Someone pressed your -- your _pamphlet_ into Philip's hand and shouted aloud the highlights for the whole street to hear."

The revelation shocked Alexander to his very core. The last thing, the very last thing, he'd wanted was his wife and children dragged into this.

"Eliza, I'm --"

She interrupted him, her dark eyes swimming with tears, as she held William closer. "There is nothing you can say, Alexander. Nothing at all. Please just go."

"Betsey --"

"Go!" She raised her voice, even as it cracked and tears began to slip down her face, frightening little William. She whispered platitudes to him through her tears, which Alexander took as his cue to go. Just as he reached the door, Eliza spoke once more in a quiet, wavering little voice most unlike her own.

"I thought you were mine."

Her words felt like a dagger to the chest as he left her there, clutching their baby son like a lifeline, crying like he'd never seen anyone cry before. Alexander made his sorry way down the hall, the door to Philip's bedroom slamming shut as he passed, and he could hear Angie in there too, not crying like her mother, but relentlessly pressing her brother for answers. "But what does it all mean?" he heard her ask. "Why would Papa write such things? Is it true? Philip? Pip? Are you -- you aren't crying, are you? What are we going to do?" He paused at the door, his fist raised about to knock, before thinking better of it. His children didn't need to see him right now. They had each other and that would be enough. Their children were blessed to have the deep affection and friendships with each other that Eliza had always enjoyed with her sisters, and which Alexander had so missed from his brother. 

He stopped at the top of the stairs, the bag Eliza packed for him heavy and unwelcome in his hand. The door at the end of the hall opened ever so slightly, and three little heads peered round the gap. Three sets of dark eyes, all the children had inherited their mother's eyes, watched him intently. His three sons, not quite as old enough as Philip and Angie to understand exactly what was happening, but they couldn't fail to realise that something was wrong.

"Pa? Are you -- are you going away?" Alexander's own namesake asked, sounding even quieter and more hesitant than he usually did. Alex had always been more reserved than his brothers, perpetually anxious and worried, and Alexander couldn't leave his son just standing there.

"Yes, my boy," he answered, making a very conscious effort to keep his voice calm and steady. "Just for a short while. I have some work to attend to and --"

"Then you'll come home?" John asked, with the astute frankness only a five year old child could achieve.

Alexander attempted a smile, and when he found that he couldn't quite manage one, he instead crouched down to John's level.

"Well," he said, slowly and carefully. "Tomorrow your mama is going to take you all up to Albany for the summer, like always, to stay with Grandfather --"

"Are you coming?" James interrupted. 

Alexander hesitated. "I will try to get away," he promised, just like he always did. 

"Papa always comes home," James replied, with such an undisguised confidence and assuredness that Alexander's breath hitched and he realised, with a horrible jolt to his stomach, that James was almost the exact age he'd been when his own father had left. 

He'd been just as small, just as full of awe for his father, and he'd watched his father hoist his bag onto his shoulder and walk out the door for the final time. Alexander had never, and would never, forget that day with his mother crying and his frantic brother pleading for their father to come back. He realised now that he was passing on almost the same memory to his own children. He had become his father, the very image he'd rebelled against so fiercely for so long, after all. 

"That's right," he replied at last, hoping none of the boys could hear the catch in his voice. "Papa always comes home. I'll be back before you know I'm gone."

"Will you write to us?" Alex asked at once. "You wrote to us last year. Every week."

"Of course I will," he confirmed, privately wondering if Eliza would even let the children read anything of his ever again. 

James and John were satisfied, but he saw Alex's eyes dart almost imperceptibly towards the closed door of his mother's room. Alexander laid a gentle hand on his second son's shoulder. "Be good for your mama, do you understand? That goes for all of you," he raised his voice slightly so Philip and Angie could hear too.

"We will, Father," Alex replied solemnly, suddenly sounding a lot older than his mere eleven years, and Alexander realised that his boy probably understood a lot more about the situation that he was letting on.

There was nothing more he could say. His throat closed over and he couldn't manage even a weak smile to try and reassure his anxious son. All Alexander could do was take in the sight of his three little boys and walk away. He had to walk down the stairs to the front door and out into the waiting street, hoping and half expecting Eliza to call him back. He wondered if his father had felt this way; felt the painful grooves his bag cut into his skin as he trudged away, the relentless Caribbean sun beating down. Had his father known then that he would never be coming back, that he would never see his children again? It occurred to him for the very first time that perhaps his father had left the family for another, perhaps he had a Maria Reynolds of his own, as it were. The thought didn't do much to help the situation.

Alexander kept his eyes firmly on the ground, avoiding the obvious stares and carrying whispers of those he passed on his way back to the office. He would not be his father, despite all evidence to the contrary. He would see his children again and he would do all in his power to repair things with Eliza. Somehow. She was still his love.

But who did a thing like that to the person they loved most in the world?

He would write to the children like he always did in the summer months they spent apart. It had become a tradition, somewhere along the way, that Eliza would take the children to visit her father and he would stay behind, with the vague promise that he would join them soon. For the first year or two or three, Alexander had fully intended to meet them, but something had always come up. Something that had always seemed so crucial at the time. This year, their sixteenth year of marriage, was the first when the invitation had not been extended to him. Perhaps it was for the best. How could he ever look General Schuyler in the eye again? How could he ever be considered a loved and valued member of his own family again? Alexander Hamilton was the man with the words, always had been, but there was nothing else he could say. That self damning pamphlet had been more than enough.

Alexander worked hard, that was no surprise to anyone. He worked hard even as his already precarious political career fell apart around him. Washington left office, and Alexander came to respect and understand the momentous decision even if he didn't like it at all. He penned the president's farewell address and stood on the sidelines as it was delivered, trying to reconcile the fact that his General was leaving him too. Eliza stood only a little way from him, the very epitome of dignified poise and grace as always. The fact that she was here beside him was more of a testament to her boundless love and forgiving nature than any of his potential redeeming qualities. He didn't deserve her. He never had and, in all likelihood, never would. 

Washington left and Adams replaced him. Adam spoke out against Alexander, so Alexander retaliated as he was wont to do. Jefferson assumed the office of the Vice President and everyday brought new arguments and taunts from both sides. Madison, once his collaborator, turned against him too and rarely had Alexander, bastard orphan Alex, felt so very alone. It was a relief to come home at the end of each day. He finally understood it now and wondered how he ever could have fought against it. He was home in time to sit at the table for dinner with his wife and children, rather than returning in the middle of the night when they were all asleep. He could oversee James' school work, listen patiently to John's scales on the piano, put William to bed with a story, hold little Elizabeth when she cried. There could have been no other possible name for the newest little girl. Eliza had blushed when he'd insisted upon it, but eventually gave in. She was the real head of the family, not him, and the real reason they hadn't fallen apart in the wake of his stupidity. The best of wives and the best of women indeed.

It took a little longer for the three eldest children to come around. Philip, Angie and Alex were old enough to remember when he didn't come home every night, when domestic life hadn't become him, and he knew that Philip, at least, had read that damned pamphlet. They weren't as blissfully oblivious as their little brothers, too excited by the fact that Papa was spending so much time with them to ponder why. Slowly, Alex began to warm up, shyly, as was his way, asking his father for help with his studies. He was planning on going to Kings, like his father and brother, and was working hard to pass the necessary exams. Alexander was only too happy to pull up a chair at his son's desk, and pore over his books and papers, offering advice and suggestions where they were needed. He thought back to those long days working at the trading charter and the even longer nights spent straining his eyes, reading minuscule print by the flickering light of one small candle. He'd been around Alex's age then, and completely alone in the world, but his son didn't have to be.

Angie had been unusually quiet after everything that ha transpired. She played the piano, her beloved instrument, only very occasionally, picking out slow, morose tunes on the keys, her eyes sad and faraway. One evening, unable to bear the sad music any longer, Alexander sat down on the stool beside her and gently placed his hands on top of hers the way Eliza did when she taught all the children to play.

"Don't be sad, my girl," he said softly. "No more sad music. You deserve to be happy, a bright young lady like yourself. No more sad music, my dear."

"I cannot understand why you did it," she whispered. "I tried to consider everything but I couldn't..." she trailed off, looking up at him expectantly with those dark Schuyler eyes. 

"Neither can I," he admitted. "I cannot understand either, and I regret it more and more with every day that passes."

Something seemed to shift between them after that, like the air had finally begun to clear. Angie began to brighten up again, she started to fill the house with cheerful tunes, like before, and she spoke to him again. His eldest daughter was exceedingly intelligent and an excellent conversationalist. Eliza had often jokingly remarked that Angie was the only person who could talk quite as much as he could. Many evenings they would make tea, and their cups would go cold and untouched as they debated whatever topic was on her mind that day. 

Philip was a somewhat different story. He was off at college and while he never stopped writing home to his father, Alexander couldn't help but notice the clipped, formal tones his son's writing adopted. He didn't send his poems home anymore, nor recite them at the top of his lungs on his visits like he used to. He still kept Alexander abreast of his studies and on the day his first born child graduated at the very top of his class, he couldn't stop grinning. Pride didn't even begin to describe how he felt as he looked at Philip, and yet there was still something of a distance between them. Alexander shook his son's hand before pulling him into an embrace, trying not to mind when Philip stiffened and quickly excused himself. 

That was why he was so surprised when Philip burst into his office not long after, frantic and out of breath. It had been so very long since his son had looked him in the eye and when he asked for advice, Alexander quickly supplied it, even though he wasn't at all pleased with the situation.

"Come back home when you're done. Take my guns. Be smart. Make me proud, son." 

He watched Philip steel himself before leaving, the borrowed pistols looking thoroughly out of place on his person. Alexander tried to return to his work that afternoon, but his mind was elsewhere. He continually replayed that conversation with the sinking feeling that he'd gone about it all wrong. "You're better than this, my boy," he might have said. "Your father's reputation isn't worth defending, son, and we both know it." "Damn honour and damn propriety and stay here with me where it's safe, Philip." "Don't take my guns. You are smart. You already make me proud everyday of your life, son." "Whatever transpires, come home right away and I promise I'll fix it." "As long as you come home, that will be enough."

When the knock on the door came, Alexander's spirits lightened considerably; his son was back. All day he'd been imagining the very worst possibilities and in his haste to get to the door and greet Philip, he entirely upset his desk and upturned a bottle of ink over the letter he'd been trying to write all day. He threw the door open, his eldest child's name on his lips, but the sound never left him, because the young man standing on his doorstep was resolutely not Philip.

"General Hamilton." The boy was clearly attempting to appear polite but his voice was timid and he seemed determined not to look him in the eye. And suddenly, Alexander knew what he was going to say and time seemed to grind to a halt. God, no. Please, God, no. "General Hamilton, sir, they sent me to fetch you. You must come immediately. It's your son. Philip. He's been shot."

All sense of reason and rationale left Alexander's mind in that moment, possibly never to return again. He didn't grab his coat, despite the cruel November winds, he didn't call for a carriage, he didn't even shut the office door behind him. He ran. Ran like he was a young man Philip's age back on the battlefield, fighting the good fight at Yorktown. Ran like he had back then, with his men falling down all around him, running flat out so that he might just make it in time. Laurens, poor dear Laurens, had died alone, shot through and bleeding out, but not Philip -- not his Philip. His son couldn't die; he wouldn't allow it. He wouldn't allow God, or whatever forces were at work, to take his son, his beautiful, talented son from him.

He skidded to a halt at John and Angelica's house, the mud splattering his shoes and breeches -- like that mattered. Like anything so insignificant could ever matter again if what he thought was about to happen was indeed about to occur. Someone must have opened the door and brought him inside. His sister-in-law's house wasn't unfamiliar to him, he was no stranger to John and Angelica, but it felt different now. It was quiet, and he had never liked the quiet before. It was foreboding, and Angelica couldn't look him in the eye and suddenly, from the other room, came a terrible scream. A guttural, visceral, blood curdling scream that seemed to cleave Alexander's insides in two because that couldn't have come from Philip. He'd worked to make the world safe and sound for his son; this was the sound torn from dying soldiers on the battleground, not Philip. Never Philip. A man he didn't know, or just didn't recognise, entered the room, his face grave and lined, his hands stained shockingly red. He spoke, his voice distant and incomprehensible because the things he said couldn't be true.

_"They brought him in about half an hour ago...he lost a lot of blood on the way over...you have to understand, the bullet entered just above his hip and lodged in his right arm...I'm doing everything I can, but the wound was already infected when he arrived..."_

Alexander fell then, fell like Philip must have fallen, but someone caught him, lowered him into a chair, pressed a cup of water into his shaking hands. Had anyone caught Philip? Had he just fallen onto the cold ground while others watched, his father back across the river, his mother -- Eliza! Had someone told her? She was with child again, she'd been ill, she'd lost a child that never even got to to be born, she didn't deserve this. _"Philip, your mother can't take another heartbreak."_

__Angelica's face swam into focus, hazy and blurred round the edges, and he saw her solemn expression and red tinged eyes. Angelica never cried, never presented anything less than a completely dignified front._ _

__"Please, Angelica," he said quietly, his voice shaking and indistinct. "Please say he hasn't -- he isn't --"_ _

__"Go to your son, Alexander," she answered, her voice steady as ever despite her red eyes and trembling bottom lip._ _

__"Angelica --"_ _

__"Philip needs you," she interrupted urgently, eyes darting towards the door. "I sent John to fetch Eliza." Her voice faltered for the first time on her sister's name. "Don't leave him alone."_ _

__The implication was clear. He hadn't been there for Eliza, or Philip, or any of the children, but he had to be there now. They needed him. Alexander accepted the hand that helped him to his feet and led him towards the other room. He paused at the door, Angelica's hand squeezing his, unwilling to enter. The moment he stepped in, it would all become real. If he stayed on the other side, he could at least pretend that there had been some error, a mistake, it wasn't his son -- but then came another scream._ _

__Alexander burst into the room and in that moment, he was forced to reconcile the fact that this was all too terribly real. There could be no going back and the image that greeted him would haunt him until his dying day. They'd laid him out on one of Angelica's spare beds, his dark curls spilling over the edge. They must have placed him flat on his back, but Philip was curled in on himself, one arm bent at an awkward angle, his once white shirt stained red. Alexander remembered soldiers on the field loosing blood, how they would very quickly weaken and turn ghostly pale. Philip looked positively grey, the freckles he'd had since he was very young standing out in sharp relief -- because it was Philip. There could be no denying or pretending otherwise. That was his son, curled up and crying like a child. A child who'd had a bullet tear through his insides and bury itself in his arm. He still was a child really, no matter how much he liked to protest, just as Alexander had done, that his mind was older. He was just a child; a scared, sick child who needed his father._ _

__"Philip." He didn't know what to say, what could he say?_ _

__"Pa." Philip's voice was quiet and feeble, most unlike his usual self, and any remaining resolve Alexander had left went crashing to the ground._ _

__He was at Philip's side in an instant, unsure of what he was supposed to do for the best, but knowing he couldn't just stay on the sidelines and let his son suffer alone. Alexander's hands were trembling quite as much as Philip's as he tried to help, to apply pressure to the wound but Philip cried out so he sprang back at once, his hands stained red._ _

__"I did exactly as you said, Pa," Philip choked out, his teeth chattering wildly even as he burned up, evidence of the infection that raged through his body, Alexander noted grimly. "I held my head up high..." he trailed off and the realisation hit him like a ton of bricks._ _

__He had done this. It was all his fault. The young man Philip had quarrelled with may have pulled the trigger, but Alexander as good as aimed the gun. What sort of a father allowed this to happen? What kind of father let his nineteen year old son scurry off to a duel to defend his undeserving father, and even supplied the pistols?_ _

__Philip tried to speak again, his already faraway voice growing fainter with every word, and each breath more laboured than the last. "Even before we got to ten, I was aiming for the sky," he explained, clutching hard at Alexander's sleeve, and staring, wide eyed at him, imploring his father to understand._ _

__Alexander was torn between quietening Philip, begging him to save his strength and stay alive, and listening to every word and treating his broken speech with a deep reverence. It occurred to him that this might very well be the last conversation he had with his son, that he was listening to his very last words. They deserved to be written downs carved into stone, preserved forever, always remembered and always present, even if Philip himself couldn't be._ _

__"No!" There came a cry from the doorway, a terrible cry that he never would have believed Eliza was capable of making had he not turned round at that instant to see her standing there. Alexander couldn't help but remember the day Philip was born, and the very first time their little family of three had come together. He knew, with a powerful ache in the very pit of his stomach, that this was going to be the very last._ _

__Time seemed to pass strangely after that. Simultaneously, it was as though they'd been huddled in this stuffy little room for days, unable to do anything but watch, helpless, as their son fought for each breath. But had it really been just that afternoon Philip had burst into his study asking for advice? Just last night Eliza had washed and pressed that once pristine white shirt that was now dark with blood? Just a few short hours ago Alexander had pressed those damned pistols into his son's hands and instructed him not to shoot?_ _

__Each moment was a hundred times worse than the last, and again, Alexander was torn. If there really could be no saving Philip, as the doctor insisted, then he hoped it would be quick, that his son could be put out of his misery. Philip was clearly in agony and whatever medicine the doctor administered seemed to have no effect. He alternated between crying and then falling into a fitful sleep. Each time his eyes rolled back in his head and his eyelids fluttered shut, Alexander held his breath and Eliza clutched his arm so tightly it hurt, both terrified that this was the very last time._ _

__"I love you, my son," Eliza murmured every time in case it was the last time, pressing a trembling kiss to his burning forehead. "I love you with all my heart and I am so very proud of you."_ _

__Alexander was selfish and wanted to keep Philip with them. Each time his son jerked awake again, he felt relief wash over him even as the Philip they knew and loved slipped further and further away beyond their reach. His eyes were glassy, unable to focus, and their small snatches of conversation grew more indistinct and incoherent. It wasn't fair to want to keep him like this and still Alexander held tight to his hand as though he could tether his son to him and to life. At one particularly terrible moment, Philip bolted awake again, his breathing shallow and ragged, and cried out for his mother and father. He was apparently unable to see them or hear their desperate reassurances or feel Alexander's fingers intertwined with his or Eliza's carding through his hair._ _

__The long night wore on and through the dim light, Alexander watched Eliza fall asleep, fighting against the exhaustion of such powerful emotions and carrying another child. She gave Alexander a pointed look and the implication was painfully clear; don't let him die without me. She laid down beside Philip, one hand still smoothing his tangled hair like that could make any difference. He watched the even rise and fall of her chest, so in contrast to Philip's rapid, jerky movements, and imagined having to wake her. How was he supposed to put his hand on her shoulder and rouse her to witness their son's dying breaths?__

___With a shuddering gasp, Philip's eyes flew open again, looking slowly around the room, before stopping at his father. Alexander hesitated, waiting to see if his son would recognise him this time, and knowing that he mightn't survive the hurt if he didn't._ _ _

___"Pa?"_ _ _

___"I'm right here, son, I'm right here," Alexander answered at once, absurdly grateful as he tightened his grip on Philip's hand. "Your mother and I are here, and we won't go anywhere, I promise you. I'll be here for you."_ _ _

___"I'm sorry." Philip's voice was so quiet he was almost inaudible, but Alexander knew these words were meant for him alone. "Wasn't supposed...wasn't meant to h--happen..." he broke off, failing to stifle a cough that made him draw in upon himself again._ _ _

___"You never need to apologise to me," Alexander said firmly, shocking himself with the intensity of his voice but knowing that it was imperative that Philip heard and understood. "Do you understand me, son? I should be the one apologising to you, a hundred times over and it could never be enough. I was supposed to make the world safe for you, but I failed you, Philip. I wasn't around for you and your brothers and sisters, and I failed you all."_ _ _

___"Pa, no," Philip protested. "I w--wanted to make you proud."_ _ _

___"Do you ever think I could ever be anything less than proud of you?" he asked quietly. "You are a fine young man that I am immensely proud to call my son. I hope I never gave you cause to think otherwise." He broke off, his emotions finally beginning to betray him. "I love you, Philip, very much. Please never forget that, my boy, never for a single moment forget that." The words were hardly his most eloquent but with a horrible, dreadful certainty, he knew the moment they feared most was fast approaching. Alexander had always felt like he was running out of time, but it was his son who had reached the end first._ _ _

___"Eliza," he said urgently, feeling physically ill about what he was about to do, what she was about to see, what was about to happen. "Eliza, my love, it's time."_ _ _

___Her eyes flew open at once, and he saw her face, her dear, sweet face, shift in that split second. The serenity of sleep contorted to pain as understanding crashed over her._ _ _

___"We played piano," Philip said suddenly, his eyes faraway and not looking at either of them, but focused on something he alone could see. In spite of it all, the corners of his mouth twitched and he seemed without pain for the first time._ _ _

___It was a memory shared between the two of them, almost exclusively between Eliza and Philip, and only when they could successfully drag him away from the office did he join them. He couldn't join in now, could only watch and hold Philip's hand so tightly he'd have been worried about hurting the boy under any other circumstance. He could only watch and wish, like an idiot, that he'd been there before._ _ _

___Alexander realised before Eliza did. She sang, pure and clear, and didn't notice, or pretended not to notice, when Philip's shuddering little voice gave out in the middle of the line. She kept singing, her hand splayed on Philip's chest as though she could force him to start breathing again. She repeated that same line over and over, waiting for a reprise that wasn't ever going to come._ _ _

___Alexander, the one with the words, found he had none to give, not when it wasn't his voice Eliza so desperately needed to hear. He'd never write or utter a single word again if it meant they could just have Philip back._ _ _

___His son._ _ _

___Eliza screamed, a terrible cry born out of pure and unadulterated heartbreak, and she slid to her knees on the ground in a horrible parody of prayer, one hand still on his chest. Alexander placed his own hand on top of hers, just like he'd done on that very first day when he'd stupidly thought he could be enough to keep their precious boy safe. Only this time, their hands were stained red and this time, Eliza pulled her hand out of his grasp as soon as he touched her, as violently as though she'd been burned. She couldn't look at either of them, and Alexander could tell that she knew it was his fault. His fault that their son was -- that their boy was gone. Dead. His fault that their family, already precarious from all his previous transgressions, had been torn asunder. Just how in the hell was he supposed to convey this news to the rest of the children? He would have to go home and look his seven -- six -- children in the eye and tell them their beloved big brother was never coming home again. And it was all their Papa's fault. He could already imagine their tears, their heartbreak, their anger, their confusion, their desperate need for comfort which he wasn't at all sure he could give. In all honesty, he couldn't remember how to exist in a world where his son didn't.__ _

____Angelica must have come in at some point, taken Eliza from the room, sent in the men who would take his son away. Alexander knew he ought to go with Eliza, that he should be the one attempting to console his inconsolable wife but when had he ever been known to do the right thing? He was rooted to the spot, watching them lay a white sheet over his son -- his son's body -- and carry him away, wanting nothing more than to rip back the coverings so that he might see his face one last time._ _ _ _

____He used to think that losing his parents was the very worst thing he could endure. Worse than the hurricane, worse than merciless winter nights at Valley Forge, worse than all of it. He'd thought nothing could be worse than watching his father willingly walk away from them, or having some nameless, heartless doctor pry him away from his mother on that terrible morning. But he'd been wrong. Like everything else he seemed to do these days, he'd been so very, very wrong._ _ _ _

____Standing outside Trinity Church on a rainy November morning, watching a pine box being lowered into the ground, and knowing that was his child in there, was the worst. Nothing could be worse than that. He would have fallen again, and almost did, had it not been for Alex's steadying hand under his elbow. Alex, his eldest boy now, stared straight ahead, his jaw set, never leaving his father's side. He'd always been mature and older than his years, but he'd shifted entirely in the last few days, seemingly taking up the mantle his brother had left behind._ _ _ _

____"I have you, Father," he said quietly, his eyes never straying from his brother's funeral, not bothering to wipe the tears slipping down his cheek. "Don't worry about that."_ _ _ _

____Alexander wanted to protest that he was fine, that he should be the one holding his children up in this dark moment, but couldn't. His words, always his greatest asset, had rapidly fallen away from him. All he could do was attempt a smile for his son's sake and move a little closer to him._ _ _ _

____"Thank you, son," he replied softly. "Thank you, Alex."_ _ _ _

____He had Alex on one side and his other four -- three, God could he ever get used to that? -- boys on the other, their arms round each other, James covering William's eyes so he wouldn't have to look, John trying his very hardest not to cry. He couldn't have stood there alone, and having his sons clustered round him meant more than he could ever say, even if it could only emphasis the missing member among them. A place that could never truly be filled even as they closed ranks around him and tried to shield themselves from the inevitable pain. God, his children didn't deserve any of the turmoil he'd dragged them through in their short little lives.__ _ _

_____Eliza stood a little apart from them, young Elizabeth, too little to understand what was happening, hiding behind her and clutching at her skirts. She was arm in arm with Angie, their eldest daughter -- child -- standing there, unusually calm and placid, looking around mildly at the scene unfolding around her._ _ _ _ _

_____Telling the children had been even harder than he could have even imagined. Having to tell Angie again the very next morning, and that evening, and the next day had been even worse. Something happened, something terrible happened in Angie's brilliant, beautiful mind and she couldn't seem to remember her brother's death. She inquired when he was coming home from Kings, why he was taking so long, why he hadn't written to her, and every time they would sit her down, and explain exactly what had happened. She would scream and cry and beg them to say it wasn't true and fall asleep sobbing into his shoulder -- then wake up the next morning and it would begin all over again. In the end, they had to make the decision to just let her be, because Alexander didn't think he could watch her face fall or hear that break in Eliza's voice even one more time. And if it chipped away at him every time Angie innocently asked where her brother was or, worst of all, spoke to him as she always did, well, that was just the price he had to pay. His daughter retreated into herself, becoming more like a child than her seventeen years but she was, at least, happy, which was more than he could say for any of the rest of them at the moment._ _ _ _ _

_____They left the cemetery that morning, their newly formed family of eight, feeling very much like they'd left someone behind. Someone very important who Alexander missed more and more everyday with a powerful ache he didn't think would ever, ever go away. Time passed, as it was wont to do, and their lives changed. They moved out of the city, away from the crowds with their looks and whispers, to where it was peaceful and quiet uptown. Alexander tried to like it, tried to treat the new house like it was their old family home and the unnatural quiet like it was a good thing but couldn't help feel like he was failing miserably on all accounts. Time passed and the world moved on without him._ _ _ _ _

_____Alex was accepted to Kings, and he saw his son start to look excited and exhilarated again. He congratulated his son, holding onto him perhaps a moment too long on the morning he left, wishing him luck and success. The unspoken words that hung in the air between them were clearly understood by both parties. Keep your head down, son, and focus on your studies. Save your arguments for the classroom and nowhere else. As long as you come home at the end of the day, that will be enough. Alexander had all of the pride and a hundred times the fear and anxiety he'd had the first time around. If it happened once, it could happen again, and he didn't think their family could survive a second sadness. The younger boys grew closer together in the absence of their older siblings. They'd always been good friends, despite the gaps in their ages, but they grew to be inseparable, with James and John never letting young William out of their sight, playing with him for hours on end from morning until night. William adored the unadulterated attention of his brothers, his laughter ringing out wildly in the quiet house, his brothers looking on fondly. Elizabeth flourished, growing into a little personality all her own, and it occurred to Alexander one day that these were going to be her lasting memories of her childhood. She wouldn't remember their life before; she wouldn't recall her eldest brother or her sister how she used to be, when the two of them doted on her and recited rhymes and songs of their own composition. She wouldn't remember the time before all of them were quite so sad.__ _ _ _

______Angie spent her time increasingly often in her own world, and try as he might, Alexander just couldn't coax her back into theirs. He spent hours in the garden with her, leading her round with a gentle hand on her arm, pointing out all the flowers once spring came. She smiled and looked at them obligingly, but then pointed them out to her brother only she could see and speak to. His heart seemed to break a little more every time, and yet she looked so happy, conversing animatedly with someone who wasn't there. A tiny part of him wished he could find the same relief. What he wouldn't give to have another conversation with his son. So he would kiss her on the forehead and send Angie on her merry way, trying to match her smile as she informed him happily that she was off to practice piano with her big brother._ _ _ _ _ _

______Eliza behaved each day as though nothing was wrong. She methodically looked after the children and carried out all her usual tasks and put on a brave face which only Alexander, who had known her so well for so long, could see through. It was only at night time when she cried. Those long, long nights after the children had gone to bed. Only then would she finally let her guard down and weep openly for the child they had lost and the child they had yet to have. There was a large part of Alexander, and probably Eliza too, that thought they would lose this child as well. What was to stop God, the God Alexander now prayed to every night for help and guidance and deliverance that never came, taking another child from them? He was terrified of losing this child, and perhaps even more terrified of what would happen after the baby was born. He honestly didn't think he would survive the pain if anything else were to happen. He had given too much, lost too much, watched Eliza battle things she should never have had to deal with, dragged the children through heartbreak too many times. He hadn't succeeded the first time, was a hundred times worse than his own father. He'd broken every single earnest promise he'd made all those years ago to that impossibly tiny bundle he'd sworn to give the world to._ _ _ _ _ _

______But time passed, as it had to, and he came into their lives. Came back into their lives in a sense._ _ _ _ _ _

______Alexander was in the room this time. It still wasn't the done thing, but he no longer cared. He couldn't spend another night listening to Eliza's cries and doing nothing about it. He hovered uncertainly by the side of the bed, helpless and nervous, and trying not to think about the last time he'd felt quite so lost, holding his loved one's hand and begging his son not to die. It was the longest night so far, none of them were as young as they used to be, and it was a night fraught with tears and pain and screams -- until it all stopped. And one, thin, high pitched wail rent the night air._ _ _ _ _ _

______Had it really been twenty years since they'd done this for the very first time? Twenty years of life and love and death and forgiveness since their first child had been wrapped in a blanket and placed in their waiting arms. He was beautiful, his mother in miniature, his brother in miniature all over again. The brother he'd never get to meet, but the brother who hadn't felt so near and so present and so alive in months._ _ _ _ _ _

________"Oh, Betsey," Alexander said quietly, the old term of endearment falling easily from his lips for the first time in a very long time. "Oh, Betsey. He's here."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"And he's ours," Eliza finished._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Alexander cried, cried as he hadn't let himself do until that point, but Eliza smiled. A genuine smile that seemed to melt away all the years and all the hurt as she gazed at her son. Her son in perfect health and happiness._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"He still needs his name," she said eventually and she shifted her gaze to him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"Yes, I suppose he does," he returned quietly, loathe to take his eyes from the baby just in case something happened, in case he would vanish too._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________There could be only one possibility, and they both knew it, yet neither wanted to be the one to say it aloud, fearful that it was entirely the wrong idea, the very worst name they could name their baby son. Yet Alexander longed to hear his name said aloud again. It had been so long since he'd heard it said in happiness, the children yelling it upstairs, Eliza calling it as she gathered the children to the table for dinner, signed affectionately at the end of a letter home. He needed to hear it again. It had been so long, and while he knew there could be no replacing who they'd lost, he could think of no finer name. It wasn't replacing, it was honouring, respecting, remembering and there was nobody better he could think of to name his child after.__ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________"Philip."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________They said it in perfect unison and knew immediately it was the right decision._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________"Welcome to the world, Philip Hamilton," Alexander said softly, just as he'd done back then. "We're very pleased to have you."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________"Oh, he'd have loved you," Eliza whispered, still smiling in spite of the tears shining in her eyes, because it felt, just in that moment, like he'd never left, like he'd always been there. Just out of sight, maybe, but still there, and still their boy._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________His brothers and sisters did love him, threw themselves so much into his care and affection that it was like he'd always been there. They'd worried about Angie, Eliza anxiously sitting right beside her as her baby brother was placed in her arms, worried about how she might react, but she loved him too. She declared that Little Phil, as one of the boys had affectionately termed, was just darling, her eyes bright, and she seemed closer to them than she had in seemingly forever. Of course, in her next breath, she asked if Philip would like to hold him, but it didn't hurt quite as much anymore. Angie was still Alexander's dear daughter, he retained his solemn promise to love her with all his heart for all his life, and it comforted him to see how the other children were so kind and patient with her, despite everything else they had to cope with. They'd closed ranks around her, just as they'd done to their grieving parents directly following Philip's death and provided their own unique source of comfort and reassurance._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________But they couldn't stay cocooned in their own little world forever. Sooner or later, the outside world came creeping in again. The children had to grow up, they were powerless to stop the relentless passage of time, and there were jobs to be done, tasks that demanded his attention, letters that needed to be read, questions that had to be answered._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________Jefferson or Burr?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________It seemed a simple enough question on the surface; one much like the countless others that had somehow found their way to his uptown retreat, and which he'd ignored._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Dear Mr Hamilton, your fellow Federalists would like to know how you'll be voting._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________It seemed like such a long time since either of those two names had meant a thing to him. If he thought hard, he could recall a time before Philip, before the pamphlet, before Maria Reynolds, when those names occupied him constantly. When he took a savage kind of pleasure and enjoyment in arguing his case, proving one or the other wrong. How he would carry home tales to Eliza about a grievance one had committed against him, how Burr's inability to take a stand infuriated him to his very core, how Jefferson differed from him on every topic known to man. That all seemed hollow now, like they were memories belonging to someone else. Someone who still held office and whose name carried respect. A name that was no longer just associated with a marital scandal, or the tragic fate of a much loved son. He could have just crumpled this particular letter up too, shoved the remains in the fireplace where they would be burned up in a matter of minutes. He could have ignored it._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________But he chose to write back. Maybe he had never learned from his mistakes, maybe he just never could back down or take his time. Maybe a part of him, a small part perhaps but a part nonetheless, wanted to get back out there, for life to feel real again, to start feeling like he was doing a job and making a difference again._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________What would be enough?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________He should have learned by now, should have learned a hundred times over, that he didn't need to have a say on everything. Sometimes he just needed to shut his damn mouth and leave it for other people to get their hands dirty. It wouldn't bring Philip back. It wouldn't heal Angie's broken mind. It wouldn't make it up to Eliza, or the children, or the Schuylers or everyone who'd ever trusted him or everyone he'd ever hurt or disappointed. But he had to do it. The people were asking to hear his voice. He'd been silent for so long --_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Jefferson has my vote._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________And time began to speed up again, because one letter led to another and another, which led to trips back into the city, away from a worried wife and a new baby. Just like old times. It was tempting to fall straight back into his old ways, to pick up his pen and start writing like there had been no interruption. It was easy, scarily easy, horribly easy, to go back to spending his evenings writing again, not realising until the sun went down that he'd whiled away the entire day in his office. Nothing to show for it but a cramped hand and pages and pages of his narrow, slanting script._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________Little Phil wasn't quite so little anymore, Elizabeth had declared her name was Eliza, just like mama and wouldn't answer to anything else, William and John were off at school, James was getting ready for Kings, Alex graduated from college and was working as an apprentice for a lawyer in the city and Angie, poor dear Angie, retreated further and further away from them. Alexander consulted the best doctors in the city, and when they had no answers, he brought in doctors from further afield. He bought presents and books, everything she used to love, filled her room with flowers from the garden, made sure the piano was always tuned and in the best condition, but to no avail. She stayed in her own little world, but seemed content to be so. Alexander increasingly had the feeling that he was doing nothing but bothering her, and let her be, watching from the upstairs study window as she walked round and round the garden, talking to someone who just wasn't there, no matter how much they all wanted to believe it. At least she didn't play sad music anymore._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________They didn't need him so much anymore, not when they had each other and they had Eliza. Maybe they never had needed him in that way. That all too brief period he'd spent trying to make it up for them had been a nice respite from normalcy, nothing more or less. So he worked on, too caught up to realise he was repeating those exact mistakes he'd sworn to never make again, those same mistakes committed by his father that he'd never quite recovered from._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________Weehawken. Dawn. Guns drawn._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________You're on._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________There could be no going back now. He could have told his son to just stay home that day, but he hadn't. He could have told his son not to throw away his shot, but he hadn't. If it had been good enough for his son, good enough for his nineteen year old son to walk onto the duelling ground with his head held high having no intention in the world to fire, then it was good enough for him. Bad enough for him. His damaged reputation hadn't been worth Philip getting into a fatal confrontation over, any more than Burr taking offence to something he said was. And yet, that was just the way the things were. Just the way things turned out._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________So he woke early that July morning, or late that July night. Late enough that the rest of the house was still fast asleep, early enough that the sun had just barely begun to rise. He lay there in bed for as long as he could, Eliza breathing deep and even in her sleep beside him. Eventually, the time came when he could delay the inevitable no longer and he rose, dressing quickly in the slowly brightening room, and creeping to his study before Eliza could be disturbed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________He'd sat in that position so many times before; his worn old desk with his trusty pen in one hand and a fresh sheet of parchment in front of him, just waiting for the words to come. But never had the words seemed so elusive and out of his grasp. He deliberated over them as long as the limited time allowed, crumpling up his first few attempts before finally settling on those that had to do. He looked over them just as the summer sun began to flow into the room, and decided to add one last line before signing off._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Adieu, best of wives and best of women. Embrace all my darling children for me._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______________"Alexander?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______________The soft voice from the doorway startled him and he very nearly upset the ink bottle. Eliza still seemed half asleep, pulling a shawl close around her shoulders in the early morning cold, but there was concern on her face and a slight worry to her voice. She wandered over to him, peering over at the letter he hastily pushed aside, her hands resting on his shoulders. He'd done nothing but worry and concern her for all the time they'd been together. The least he could do now was assuage her panic, assure her that everything was going to be alright. He owed her that much. He owed her the entire world, but he owed her this much at least._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______________"I'll be back before you know I'm gone."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______________She accepted his promise like she always did, like he'd never given her any reason to doubt him. He never did deserve her. _You will never find anyone as trusting or as kind. em > The memory rose, unbidden, to his mind but that was the real truth of the matter. She kissed the top of his head and turned to go, her fingertips trailing away and he was suddenly struck by the impulse to hold onto her, to stop her from leaving, to tell her what was happening so she might stop him from leaving too. He knew Eliza would prefer him to stay at home, she'd been saying it for years, insisting to him that they didn't need a legacy or money, all she needed to be satisfied was for him to come home. He knew she'd be horrified if she knew where he was going. She'd tell him to rethink, that surely there was still time to sort things out, that some things just weren't worth engaging in a duel of all things, with Aaron Burr of all people. She'd ask him to remember how Burr was the first person, and the first friend, he met in America, and what would the Alexander of the past say if he knew this was the way their friendship would turn out. She'd implore him, with tears in her eyes, to remember how their darling Philip had died in agony, not three years ago, how it had nearly destroyed them all, how one more tragedy might just push them all over the brink. __ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________But he said nothing, and she said nothing, just smiled bemusedly and fondly as he kissed her hand before finally letting her go. He looked at her perhaps a moment too long, studying her dear face as though he wasn't going to return home in an hour or two. Just in case. Once she'd gone, he stowed the letter under a pile of papers so he could easily get rid of it later, and she'd never have to read it. But he couldn't hide it completely. Just in case there came a time when she would have to find it. Just in case._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________It was Eliza he thought of, and the children, as he left the house. He thought about looking in on them before he left, but quickly dismissed the idea. He didn't want to disturb their sleep, or frighten them when there was really no reason for it. So he left the house alone, quietly closing the door behind him and making his silent, solitary way down the street and towards the way, his second and his surgeon meeting him along the way. Just in case. It was his family he thought of on the boat journey across the Hudson, and his family he thought of as he stood there, the sunlight in his eyes, loading the pistol he'd shared with his son._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Philip never hurt a soul, he must have been so scared._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________Alexander would be lying if he said he wasn't scared, even a fraction, in the event of all his calculations being mistaken. If Burr really was so incensed, if he'd taken real and genuine offence at his remarks, then maybe he could be driven to shoot, but Alexander severely doubted it. Burr was always cautious, always waited, always skulked in the background, silently assessing the situation. His political career would be ruined forever. The Hamilton name still carried some weight in the right circles and Burr, even as the newly elected Vice President, had tenuous enough relations with Jefferson and the Democratic Republicans as it was. It couldn't be in his interest, political or otherwise, to shoot._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________It was just another subject he'd so terribly misjudged. And time began to speed up. One last time. One last thought._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________Burr came hurrying towards him, ashen faced like he'd just taken a bullet to the spine, but he didn't get to hear the words Burr fought valiantly against his second to be able to say, before they were both hurried away in different directions. There could be no point dwelling on the pain. It was all encompassing and all consuming, a mortal wound by all accounts, and he knew there could be no repairing the damage. His life and his time, once so seemingly disposable, was reaching the limit that had been imposed on him at age twelve, when his mother's illness took hold of him and kept him in its tight embrace. He remembered being fourteen and wishing for a war, being seventeen and hoping the hurricane might wash him away with the rest of the destruction, being twenty and desperately yearning to lead a command, not worrying or caring if his life was taken in the glorious struggle for freedom and independence. He remembered being forty four and wishing to trade his life so that his son might stand in their midst once more._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________His life had seemed to mean so little back then. Just another immigrant with no credentials, not a dollar to his name, coming to America. He could have died on the ship over and no one would have been the wiser, and no one would have cared. His own father, his own brother, didn't care, and neither did he. Was his life really worth so much now?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________Only to those he'd dragged along, he supposed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________The pain was -- terrible, like someone had set him alight, burning him alive, and he couldn't feel his legs anymore which couldn't be an indication of anything good. But he knew, at least for him, it would be over soon. Whether he would reach some happy immortality, as he'd promised Eliza in his last letter, he couldn't truthfully say. He didn't know if he would qualify as a good man to reach those pearly gates, if such a thing even existed to greet him once the bullet finally took him. Even if there was nothing on the other side, if there was no other side at all, he would just close his eyes and know nothing more. It would be over for him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________Dying is easy, young man, living is harder._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________He'd never quite understood the words of the General back then, too caught up in his youthful dreams of glory, but lying here, on a hard bed in an unfamiliar room, he understood all too clearly. It would be Eliza and the children who would be left to deal with his messes and mistakes, same as always. They would be the ones to cope with another death in the family, to take another heartbreak they had no choice but to soldier through. At least this way, he couldn't make any more mistakes that would affect the children, he couldn't keep disappointing them over and over. They could be left with the memory of a father who was so principled and firm in his convictions that he died for them instead of having to live with the constant disappointment of a somewhat distant Papa. Little Phil, and even young Eliza might grow up without remembering his true self at all, and the martyrdom he was already certain would precede his demise would be all they knew._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________But then it occurred to him, as the doctor examined the wound with careful hands, that he was leaving his children fatherless, the exact thing he'd promised not to do on the days of each of their births. He'd held each tiny bundle, looked into the dark eyes and made the solemn promise to all his sons and daughters that he would always be there for them. He made the same promise every summer in their months apart, swearing that he would try to come and see them, but they'd all be together soon._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Was it better to have a father who willingly walked away from his family, or a father who willingly walked into the duelling ground and got himself killed?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________He drifted in and out, speaking whenever he had the strength, while he still had the words to give before they were lost to him forever. Angelica perched on the edge of the bed, watching him somewhat warily with tears in her eyes, he was surprised to see. He expected an angry confrontation from her, a confrontation that would be laughably one sided, but she took his hand instead, with a gentleness he didn't expect._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________"God, I hope you're satisfied now," she said softly, no malice or sting to her words as there once might have been._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________He attempted a feeble smile. "You know me, I'm never satisfied," he responded quietly, barely recognising the strained, hoarse voice as his own._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Angelica laughed, despite the tears beginning to slip down her cheeks, and pressed her lips to the back of his hand._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Eliza didn't cry, or she didn't let him see her cry at least. She was as methodical as always, never leaving him, sticking firmly to those solemn wedding vows they'd made and which he had so cavalierly thrown away. Her presence was a calming one in the room, her gentle hands cool on his burning forehead, her voice soft and sweet in his ear. She kept one hand tucked in his, no matter who traipsed into the room to offer goodbyes and condolences and kept up a steady stream of reassurances and platitudes. It made him think of their wedding night all over again, and he wondered, fleetingly, how he ever could have strayed away from her loving embrace. He spoke back to her whenever he could, sharing memories and stories, desperately offering apologies and explanations that she quickly dismissed, instead imploring him to save his strength._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Words only completely failed him once during that long night, when the children were ushered in and stood in a line at the foot of the bed. Alex kept a protective arm round Angie's shoulder, Little Phil peered round uncertainly from behind James' legs, and the rest stood hand in hand, watching him with their big dark eyes. He tried to speak to them then, to reassure them that everything was going to be fine, and it wasn't as bad as it looked, but he couldn't. He couldn't lie to them anymore. He was glad to have seen them once last time, but seeing them there, his darling children from twenty years all the way down to two, he wished he had the strength to embrace them all, like he'd implored Eliza to do in his letter. But he could just watch, his own tears clouding his eyes as he saw them break down, the older children trying to comfort the little ones even as they cried bitter tears themselves. They huddled round the bed then, taking his hand one by one, kissing his cheek, whispering goodbyes, and wished he could give them a proper goodbye, take each child in turn and tell them how much he loved them, how very proud he was of them, how sorry he was. But he couldn't, and the children just got more upset._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________He caught Alex's eye then and understanding passed between them. Alex, at eighteen years, would be the man of the house now, he would be the one to look after his mother and the children from now on, but, really, he'd already had that responsibility for years. His son nodded, steeling himself, roughly dragging the back of his hand across his streaming eyes, and motioned to his siblings that it was time to go. Eliza, pale and trembling but resolute, held Little Phil up for one last kiss, and as Alexander regarded their youngest child, his vision seemed hazy for a moment. In that instant, Phil was joined by his brother Philip, standing right beside him, his hand on his shoulder and the other hand outstretched towards their father. Just for an instant and then he was gone again, but the inference was clear. It may just have been the medicines playing tricks with his mind, but he knew the eleventh hour was fast approaching. He was running out of time and his time was, finally, up. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, all his children, living and dead, were gone._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Eliza lay beside him on the bed, her head on his shoulder, the two of them conversing like it could just be any other night, like they weren't playing out their last conversations, their last embraces and last kisses._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________"I didn't mean it -- I didn't think Burr -- I didn't want to die."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________"I know," she soothed. "I know."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________"Don't be afraid," Eliza murmured sometime later, tightening her grip on his hand. "Please don't be afraid, my darling. They're all waiting for you, I promise. They're all waiting for you on the other side, and I'll be waiting to come and join you too."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________"My love, take your time," he said, with as much firmness as he could muster, because Eliza still had so much time left to her, so much she could do without having to worry about him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________"Of course," she tried to raise a smile. "If you'll let me use one of your own phrases, I have so much work to do."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________"The children --" he began, but couldn't finish, the memory of them all huddled around him was too strong, and he could have sworn he saw Philip sidle into the room out of the corner of his eye._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________"Will never forget you," Eliza finished. "Nobody will ever forget you."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________"It might be best if they did."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________"Alexander, they love you with all their hearts, just as I do, and I will remind them of you everyday. Justice will be done to your memory, I swear it."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________"Tell them -- tell them I apologise. For all of it. Tell them I wish things hadn't come to a close in this way."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________"We forgive you, Alexander. You were forgiven a long time ago. Please don't doubt that, or forget it."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Her words were accompanied by a distant song she couldn't seem to hear, a once rowdy and jubilant tune that was strangely melancholy now. One voice stood out above the rest, a voice he hadn't heard in so long but recognised at once as he led the chorus . He could hear the soldiers of his youth, hear the call to arms delivered in the General's deep and measured tone gradually replaced by the sounds of the ocean, the songs his mother used to sing when they huddled together for warmth in the throes of their sickness._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________"Sleep well, my love," Eliza whispered, her voice cracking and tears finally beginning to fall as she pressed a final kiss to his lips. "Give our Philip a kiss from me, won't you? We'll be alright here. You sleep now."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________There was so much he wanted to say to her, so many things he needed to explain and apologise for and remember with her. But he was so tired and he couldn't fight the exhaustion even though he wasn't satisfied yet. There were still a million things he hadn't done, and would never do, and he didn't get to hear what Burr had wanted to say to him, never got to say goodbye to his old friends, never got to see his children grow up, never got to see his father and have that conversation he'd always secretly wanted. They would have to be Eliza's tasks from now on. He found a last bit of strength from somewhere and squeezed her hand, even though he knew it was time to go, even as the light seemed to fade from the room and the faces of those he'd never expected to see again crowded round him, as real as his children had been just hours before._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________My love, my children, take your time. Take all the time in the world, live your lives and one day we'll be together again, in some better world, all ten together for the first time. We always come home, don't we? I'll see you all on the other side. One day._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	2. I'll Do Whatever It Takes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So she stands on the threshold and pushes the door open, silent, even as the veritable hurricane that is all her husband's work and writings crashes over her. It takes her breath away, just like he always took her breath away and there could be no more fitting tribute to the man. She moves slowly and cautiously, her hands tentative and uncertain, at once wanting to grab everything and hold on tight, but also to keep everything as it is.

Times passes differently now, has passed differently since her husband breathed his last and his hand went limp in hers. Never has she had so much time before, and yet so much to do. She could have a hundred years more and it might never be enough to achieve all she has set her mind to. Eliza had rarely understood Alexander and his desperate, all consuming need to do more, be more, but she comprehends it now. She lives it now, and in some ways, she believes Alexander might be proud of her for it. She just wishes she might have understood it more at the time, not that it matters any less now that the man himself is dead and gone. It's a useless wish, but a deeply heartfelt one all the same. 

Standing on the threshold of his study, she almost goes back on the solemn vow she made to herself to stop wasting time on tears. She'd burst in here on that first night, once she'd finally settled all her heartbroken, grieving children to bed with whispered lies that it would all look better in the morning. She'd wanted to feel like he was still there, just in his office at the end of the hall like always. The vast expanse of the bed she would now forever occupy alone didn't bother her as much as the empty office. She'd woken up more times that she could count alone in that bed, listening to the familiar sounds of his quill scratching as candlelight spilled out from beneath the door. It was how she'd woken up on that last morning, so she'd come flying in, convinced that she might just catch him at his desk, frowning at whatever he was writing, his face falling into an easy smile when he spotted her. She hadn't, of course, and she'd cried then, because she hadn't promised not to do that yet. She sobbed as quietly as she could, not wishing to disturb the children, ran her hands lightly over the worn desk, picked up his favourite quill, looked all around the office of the man she loved. The man who, quite clearly, had believed he would be back that afternoon to tidy up or, in all likelihood, make further mess. Then she'd spotted the letter addressed to her, her own name in his all too familiar handwriting, and she'd fled from the room, not wishing to be there any longer. She'd locked the door, kept everything carefully preserved and untouched, like she really could believe he'd be back any day to finish everything he'd started. 

But he'd never finish it now. He couldn't. But perhaps she can.

So she stands on the threshold and pushes the door open, silent, even as the veritable hurricane that is all her husband's work and writings crashes over her. It takes her breath away, just like he always took her breath away and there could be no more fitting tribute to the man. She moves slowly and cautiously, her hands tentative and uncertain, at once wanting to grab everything and hold on tight, but also to keep everything as it is. She knows she should establish some kind of system, because it is a crime and a sin that these thousands of pages of writing are left untouched and unloved, but she doesn't know where to begin. Angelica would be better at this, and Eliza knows she will enlist her sister eventually or even her eldest son, who has all of his father's wit and intelligence and none of his brashness. But this time, the first time, she wishes to do it alone. The house is quiet, it's always quiet uptown, but now even more so as the children are spending their summer the way they always do. Her father had begged her to join them upstate too, like she always did, but she politely refused, even though she knows her father is worried sick about her. She will try to get away later, but for now she must lock herself away in this office and work. It is a strange reversal of roles and feels oddly reminiscent of old times, but she will not stay here forever. Her work can't wait for now, and it will do her children good to get away from the city and the sadness for even a little while.

If there is some system or organisation in place, then it was apparent only to the man himself. Either that or nothing has a particular home because Alexander just had the sort of mind where he could place his hand on whatever page he was looking for at the drop of a hat. He worked alone, even as part of an army or a cabinet, he still worked alone and he likely never dreamed that anyone would be sifting through all his writings. He believed his story had ended long ago and that he'd effectively written himself out.

There is no clear beginning to his works, and the ending, his very last letter, is too recent and raw to be read right now, so she searches elsewhere. There is no clear chronology, no distinction between his public and private writings because that was how Alexander lived his life, and it could be no different in his death. She forgoes the chair, absurdly uncomfortable and hard backed considering how much time he spent hunched over his desk, and sits on the floor, pulling the nearest stack of papers closer with a reverent hand and begins to read. The sheer volume of it all is overwhelming and yet she wants to read and organise and celebrate every word written in her husband's small, slanting script. The early drafts of what would eventually become the much lauded Federalist Papers become mingled with scribbled little notes her husband wrote to help him keep track of an ever mounting workload. Letters to and from his fellow soldiers that fly right over her head are mixed in with his newspapers articles, strictly anonymous of course, condemning Adams, Jefferson, Madison, anyone whom Alexander felt had wronged him that day. She finds a stack of letters from a man she doesn't know, a Mr Van Ness, then she sees the carefully signed signature of one Aaron Burr and has to look away. One day she might wish to know the exact circumstances that led to her husband dying with a bullet in his spine, but not today. There will be time enough for that. 

She finds the letters Alexander had penned during his early law career, when his hand would grow so tired and so cramped he would be physically unable to hold a pen. She'd take over then, carefully writing down the words he dictated, her handwriting less impressive and her spelling much less accurate than this, but he never cared about that. Her own handwriting is like a friendly little wave from someone she knows, and it is a welcome sight in the sea of all this uncertainty. She smooths out a letter harshly folded up and placed in a drawer many years ago, one that she herself read aloud informing Alexander that his dear friend from the military had been killed. Her husband's words, with more paragraphs in her own little scribble, seem to come alive as she remembers President Washington's farewell address. The General could practically be standing in the room with her, delivering those words again, Alexander watching with her on the sidelines, his hand discretely tucked in hers, tears shining in both of their eyes, though neither would ever say. 

Alexander, it transpires, kept copies of almost everything he ever wrote and so she relives the birth of their first child through her husband's eyes. She cries a little then, wiping her tears before they can fall and smudge the precious letters, because it's been over three years and she misses Philip everyday, and especially in recent times. She traces a finger over his name, likely the first time Philip Hamilton had been set down in ink, and remembers his first day with unimaginable joy, and his last day with unimaginable sorrow. Alexander's fear and excitement and apprehension and love, everything they felt about becoming parents, shines through every word of his hastily scribbled letters to his friends and her heart, already fractured beyond repair, seems to break a little more. She hopes her husband and her child are together now, and they're safe and they're happy, wherever they are. Alexander's letters to his friends seem laughably young and naive and carefree now, in a way his later letters never were. The names, _Mulligan, Lafayette, Laurens,_ seem almost unfamiliar to her, it has been so long since she's heard from them or of them. Between these names of forgotten friends, and her departed husband and son, Eliza has rarely felt so alone. Realistically she knows that she has her sister and her father and her seven wonderful children who give her light in an otherwise pitch black world, but right now, just in this moment, it feels like it is Eliza against the world. The world that has tried to take everything from her and still keeps taking, dragging her husband's name through the mud. 

So she reads on, smiling at Philip's childish writing in his letters from boarding school and trying not to think that if she'd known back then what his future would hold, she never would have sent him and would have kept him home, with her, instead, even just to enjoy an extra few years with him close by. She finds Alex's letters from his early days at Kings, just a few short years ago now, and various drawings and scribbles the children had done throughout the years in between policy documents and plans for the assumption of the national debt. A pamphlet, yellowed with age and words fading slightly, entitled Letters of a Westchester Farmer, calls up memories of summer in the city, arm in arm with both her sisters, and an impossibly young Alexander passing out leaflets and haranguing anyone he disagreed with. Flipping through the pamphlet, she finds notes in the margins, written in Alexander's irate hand, and nearly laughs aloud when she notices how he has crossed words out and added his own, none too polite, alternatives beneath. She hasn't laughed in so very long. 

Her breath catching slightly in her throat, Eliza finds her own name and, with trembling hands, uncovers the letters Alexander wrote her, and the replies she could never return fast enough. She never thought she'd see these again, thought she'd burned them all in that dark, terrible moment of confusion and loneliness and overwhelming despair. She might have known he'd make copies, and never has she been so grateful for her husband's pedantic nature. She takes her time reading them, and just like that, she is a young woman again, when she was still just _Miss Schuyler_ to him and he was still just _Captain Hamilton_ to her. She feels a blush creeping into her face as she relives the quick transition from their first letters, full of polite enquiries and tame declarations of friendship and admiration, to the letter wherein Alexander confessed he was going to ask Father for her hand in marriage. She reads the pages upon pages he sent her, Eliza's own small replies appearing meagre and scarce in comparison, and doesn't know whether she ought to laugh or cry. They'd been so _young,_ not much older than Alex or Angie, full of bright eyed dreams and vast plans for the future. Alexander, a penniless solider, dashing in his military uniform, and Eliza, shy and quiet, standing just behind her sisters.

She finds Alexander's correspondence with her father, first as just another aide-de-camp appealing to a Senator, and then as his daughter's potential suitor. She reads letters to and from Angelica, her sister's wit and intelligence matched only by Alexander's, and is glad that she is no longer so far away. She will need her sister, she will need all the help she can get, and she knows Angelica will be a willing participant in this gargantuan task she has set herself. She did know Alexander the longest after all, even if their formal introduction to each other only took place a fraction before Eliza's. She comes across letters to and from her younger sister, letters she never even knew existed, and cannot help but laugh as she reads them, the noise sounding unnatural in the otherwise silent house. Her little sister wrote letters in the exact same conversational, teasing tone she spoke in, and Eliza's laughter quickly threatens to turn to tears, because she misses her. She misses Peggy and she misses Alexander and she misses Philip, and before these dreadful recent years, she never knew it was possible to feel so much love and so much sadness all at once. 

She works late into the evening, not noticing that the sun has slipped away until she is sitting in the darkness and it becomes necessary to light a candle. She should go to bed, but she hasn't slept a full night since she woke up to persuade Alexander to come back to bed for the last time, so she might as well do something productive with the late hours. Sometime late in the evening, she opens the bottom drawer of her husband's desk, where yet more documents and papers and letters spill out. There are more policy outlines, notes on the cases he took as a young lawyer just starting out, a poem Philip wrote on his ninth birthday -- and a small stack of letters, bound tightly in string, right at the bottom. 

Eliza stops then, hesitant and uncertain, a curious sense of foreboding and apprehension washing over her. It feels almost like these particular letters are off limits, like she shouldn't read them, like they weren't meant for her eyes. It occurs to her that, apart from the letters actually addressed to her however many years ago, nothing in this room was really meant for her eyes, and yet here she is sifting through it all. Still, she sets them aside and tries to focus on other things, there are enough pages in this one small room to keep her occupied for a lifetime after all, but finds her mind continually drawn back to them. She snatches them up, feeling absurdly guilty, and actually takes a glance behind her before untying the string, as though someone is about to burst in and reprimand her. What she wouldn't give for Alexander to come charging in to find her here. 

As the string falls away and a small stream of letters slips into her lap, she realises what these letters might be, and the thought does nothing to ease her already troubled mind and heart. She doesn't want to read the circumstances of her husband's duel and she doesn't want to read the circumstances of her husband's affair. He'd already published the letters she wrote him, published all the details in all their sordid glory for the whole world to see. She doesn't need to read them in his handwriting, anymore than her eldest children had needed to read that pamphlet back when it was first published. But they had, and she did, and she doesn't need to read them anymore. But to her surprise, as she goes to tie them up and hide them again, her eyes fall upon a name that confuses her. 

_James Hamilton._

Eliza frowns, because she gets the very distinct impression that these letters aren't referring to her son. The only other people she knows with that name, and know is a very loose term, weren't regular correspondents with her husband, as far as she knows. But there are things she, and the world, will now never know about Alexander, even though he appeared to wear his heart on his sleeve and empty the contents of his head to the entire world on a regular basis. She cannot deny that she is curious to see what Alexander had to say to his father or brother, and what they had to say to him. He'd always been uncharacteristically quiet about that part of his life. All she'd ever known about his father was that he'd left the family before his mother died. That was all. She'd been surprised when Alexander had suggested, albeit tentatively, that they name their fourth child James. When she'd questioned him about it later, he'd simply brushed it off, saying that he ought to honour his father. It was only that evening, as she'd drifted in and out of sleep, with Alexander sitting on the bed beside her that she'd heard the real reason. He'd had James in his arms, James _Alexander_ as she'd sleepily insisted, and he spoke softly to their sleeping child, just as he'd done with Philip, Angie and Alex before him. He made the same promise he always made to their children, the same promise Eliza always listened to, though she would never embarrass Alexander by revealing she heard. 

"My father wasn't around, but I will never do to you, my boy. I swear that I will always be there for you. I promise you that, James." He'd paused then, and Eliza, who'd been on the brink of sleep, comforted by the familiar words, opened one eye, curious. "One day, when you're older, you may question why I named you for my father, and you may not understand why, and I confess that I didn't understand at first either. My father had his struggles in his life, struggles that you will never have, my boy, and for a very long time, my memories of him were tainted. Perhaps they still are. But my thoughts about you are anything but tainted, and I wish to have positive memories associated with the name again. You are going to do great things, my son, just like your brothers and your sister, and I will always be proud of you, no matter what you set your mind to."

The memory is so clear it could have happened yesterday, and Eliza almost has to remind herself that James is sixteen years old, and the conversation she remembers in such vivid detail happened long ago now. She finds herself wanting to read these letters, and cannot stop herself from picking up the first one. The paper is fragile in her hands and she holds it gently, worried that it will crumble into dust beneath her fingertips, and the ink is faded too. It is not the expensive, good quality paper and ink Alexander's treasury documents were written on, and speaks of a time and a place and a boy long ago. 

She reads the words written by a seventeen year old Alexander, a boy in the Caribbean she never knew, and his paragraphs conjure up palaces, like they always did. She feels like she is standing beside him, everything she ever knew lying in ruins at her feet, the wind howling, the water rising, the sky yellow above her. She can see him now, though she never saw him then; stick thin and ragged and ready to take on a world that had forsaken him. She knows, from the little Alexander ever revealed about his humble beginnings, that this is the letter that got him off the island. She wants to preserve it forever, hold it close to her heart and thank God for its existence because without it, Alexander might never have made it to America and the life they built together, their children, their marriage, the new nation he helped to construct might never have happened. She also wouldn't be sitting here in her dead husband's study sorting through his things without this letter, but that is beside the point, and she could never regret meeting and falling in love with him all those years before. It is a beautifully written letter, even though the subject matter is so heartbreaking and dismal, and she understands the reaction it provoked. It would be impossible not to be moved by this letter and even now, more than thirty years after the fact, she feels the call to action to help in whatever way she can. She wants to help this boy, this boy who wasn't her husband yet, who has already lost his family and his home and still has so much more to give and lose. This letter, she knows, was printed in a newspaper, and prompted perfect strangers to dig deep into their pockets and book Alexander onto a ship to the new world. 

But it is addressed to his father.

She could cry then, because the words become so much more when they were written for his father. Here is a boy appealing directly to an absent father for help. Help that came from practically everywhere else but him. She can find no reply. There is every possibility that James Hamilton's response is somewhere else in this room, and she hasn't even begun to contemplate what she will find in Alexander's office back in the city, but somehow she knows, instinctively knows, that no reply ever came. Her sadness becomes mingled with anger now.

She has never met James Hamilton the senior, she doesn't even know if he is still alive, but now, more than ever, she understands the impact he and his absence had on her husband. The sense of abandonment and loss shines through every word, and she tries to imagine ever feeling like that herself. Perhaps her children feel that way now with their own father gone. The thought is not a comfortable one.

Alexander's fear at becoming a father himself, that fear that never quite dissipated even as their family grew ever larger, his constant desire to prove himself, to push himself to the very brink in order to showcase his worth were just a select few elements of his father's legacy. His hopes of impressing his father, of exhibiting his talents through his writing are clear to see, and she is reminded irresistibly of Philip and his perpetual quest to make Alexander proud. A quest that resulted in his death, even though his father had been immensely proud of him since the day and hour he was born. Perhaps the children will be spared from this now. But then again, the littlest ones, in all likelihood, won't have their own memories of Alexander at all, which doesn't seem right or fair either. It is just one of her many reasons why she wants to preserve his work and legacy. 

Her name jumps out at her from another letter addressed to James Hamilton. It is a single, half page this time, and it couldn't come in sharper contrast to the letter from the Caribbean. It is brief and to the point, a formal announcement of Alexander's situation at the time. She checks the date; just over a year since their wedding day and the exact day of Philip's birth. Despite the terse, clipped nature of the missive, Eliza cannot help but smile, albeit a little wanly and sadly, as she reads it. He loved them so much, their little family of three as it was back then. And still she finds no reply to this new husband and father from his own parent. She has already seen the notes of congratulations from her own parents, her sisters, Alexander's friends, General Washington, as he was then. There is even a congratulatory letter from Aaron Burr, which is jarring to say the least. It surely says something about Alexander's father that the man who would eventually come to bring about his death wrote to him, and James Hamilton didn't. This could very well have been his first grandchild; Eliza doesn't know if they have any nieces or nephews from Alexander's brother but that is beside the point. 

The letters continue, keeping up a somewhat steady stream of one sided conversation. Years pass and Angie's name appears, then Alex, then James, and still no acknowledgment comes, not even in recognition of the grandson named for him. John is born, then William, Elizabeth and she is a little surprised to see that Alexander even wrote to his father after the birth of their youngest child, their darling Little Phil who brought life back into a family where she feared it might be lost forever. This is presumably the last letter, though as she has found somewhat to her hindrance, any chronological order has long since descended into only slightly organised chaos. It takes a while, she cannot accurately say how long, the candle burns lower and lower, but she does at last find a reply from her estranged father-in-law.

It is no surprise it was so hard to find. James Hamilton's reply is scrawled on the back of one of Alexander's letters; a small, spidery script on an untidily refolded sheet and placed back in the same envelope it was sent in, addressed to the treasury department. It is telling that this letter came in response to Alexander telling his father about his success as both a lawyer and the treasury secretary, back when he used to hold both positions and however many others besides. In this letter, James Hamilton asks his son for a lend of some money. There is no preamble, no inquiry after the son he hadn't seen since he was a little boy, no questions about his wellbeing, his wife, his children, his new life in America. Just a recognition of Alexander's success and a none too polite request for a not insubstantial loan, which she knows her husband would have given without question or hesitation. She hasn't gone through all of his many bank books yet, but she knows this much for certain. Her husband could never resist a cry for help, she knows that only too well. He was still the young man desperate for his father's approval, eager to please the father who'd abandoned him.

Eliza bristles with anger and she has to force herself not to tear the offending letter into little pieces and throw the remains into the fireplace where they so clearly belong. She isn't angry at Alexander, per se, for paying the money, even though she knows the children and herself are no longer in a comfortable financial situation at all and need all the money they can get. She knows, deep down, that if Alexander had ever shown her this letter she would have insisted that he pay the money too. No, she is angry that Alexander's father had the sheer audacity to ask, to take advantage of his son's position and exploit his funds and his good nature for nothing but his own financial gain. She finds other letters from Alexander, imploring his father to come to America, to come stay with them, to become reacquainted with his son and meet his daughter-in-law and grandchildren. No replies came, and the man himself never came either. There are pages upon pages in Alexander's hand, describing her and the children, describing the bountiful opportunities America had to offer, and every single one is signed off with affection. She can't understand it, can't understand how Alexander's father could turn his back on him again and again. Can't understand how Alexander could keep trying, how he could so desperately want the approval of a man who didn't deserve him as his son. She's been trying for years to understand what would be enough for him. Perhaps this could have been it. They'll never know now.

The early morning sun slowly begins to make itself known, the summer rays creeping into the small room illuminating the dust motes of the disturbed papers swirling round her. Eliza's eyes are burning in her head, she has never been so tired and yet so awake, so filled with things to do at the same time. She entered the office in the early morning after seeing the children off, and can't recall taking anything to eat or drink today. She gets the impression that this was how Alexander felt a large fraction of the time, and wishes she'd been able to make him take a break more often. Wishes are useless now, but she can still think of them, while setting her mind to more productive tasks. She has decided what her next course of action will and must be. She needs assistance, that much is painfully obvious, and she thinks about approaching some of Alexander's old colleagues in the treasury or in the law offices in the city, those few he stayed in touch with and who stayed loyal to him and his memory. They might be better suited to organise and catalogue all the legal and financial papers than she is. It occurs to her that someone needs to write Alexander's life down, to immortalise it forever in paper and ink. There could be no better tribute to the man. Eliza wishes, again another wish, that she could be the one to set his life down in words, but she is no writer, not in the sense Alexander was, and she is fearful that she wouldn't do it, and him, justice. No, she will find someone who understands and appreciates the gravitas of the situation, no matter how long it takes her. Justice will be done to the memory of her Hamilton.

But for now, she will leave the office, just for a little while, pack her things and go to stay with her father and the children upstate. She misses them already, and she is fed up of feeling alone and sad, though she knows she will never fully feel whole and contented possibly ever again, she must do what she can. 

She has one more thing to do though, before the carriage that will take her to Albany arrives. She takes a fresh sheet of paper, and tries not to think about what that fresh stack of unused parchment means, because Alexander surely thought he'd be back to fill those up with writing too and never imagine she'd be the one using them instead. She forgoes using his most favourite quill, the one she'd given to him as a wedding present and which he'd only used for very special occasions, wanting to preserve it, and takes another from the drawer. Eliza hesitates for a moment before sitting at the chair, and settling herself at the desk, pen in hand and paper laid out before her. She dips the point of the quill in the ink and it hovers over the page, faltering for just a second before the words are conjured up in her mind and begin to flow out of her pen. She feels like Alexander is standing over her, his hand over hers, helping to guide the pen, writing the words he was never able to in his life. The words come surprisingly quickly, given the weight of the subject matter and the addressee. There must be something about sitting in this chair and at this desk, having read all these letters, that inspires her. Alexander could be sitting across the table from her, watching her with those eyes and that smile, like they were back in that ballroom all those years before. She imagines him reading over her shoulder, one eyebrow quirked. She hopes he'd be proud of her, and he thinks he just might be, if, by some miracle, he is able to see her now. 

She signs off the letter with somewhat of a flourish, her signature is not as extravagant as her husband's, but it gets the job done. The letter is neatly folded into an envelope and closed off with her husband's seal before she can lose her nerve and give up the whole idea. Eliza clutches it tightly in her hand before carefully placing it in the case she will take to Albany, with the thought of posting it when she gets there. Her task done -- not done, but merely postponed for a very short time, she takes one long, last look around the room, feeling the presence of her husband who hasn't felt so near and with her in weeks. She smiles then, despite the betraying sting of tears in her eyes. 

"Justice will be done to your memory, my darling," she murmurs, her hand resting on the doorknob for a moment before closing the door, just for now. "I promise you that."

Weeks later, a letter will arrive at an old family home, a letter addressed to one who died some six years previous, a letter that will be opened and pored over and discussed by obscure relations who have no knowledge of the lady who wrote it. But they will read what she has to say and the story she has to tell will be told. It is a tradition which will long continue. 

_Dear Mr Hamilton,_

_You do not know me, and I do not know you. Indeed, I am unsure if my letter will even find you at this address, or if you will even be alive in order to receive it, in which case I hope someone else might read it in your absence. Allow me to introduce myself; my name is Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton and I am, in the legal sense of the word at least, your daughter-in-law, having married your son, Alexander many years ago. It is my sad duty to inform you that my husband died some weeks ago._

_I do not wish to go into the circumstances of his death, just that the fact remains he has gone. America grieves for a man who has contributed so much to this new nation, a man who fought to make us free and then helped to build the country from the ground up. The highest and grandest names in the land mourn his loss, but there is surely no one who feels this grief more than I. Alexander leaves behind seven children, and I can only hope that he has been reunited in some happier world with our eldest son whom we have also lost. I cannot speak for your emotions on this tragic news which has broken my family and all of America, but I felt you should know that your son has died. I know my own feelings, having lost my own son, but then, I watched him grow into a fine young man and cared for him and loved him with all my heart. Having not seen your son since he was a young child, I cannot attest to how you will receive this news._

_My husband was a fine man whom I loved dearly and will always love for the rest of my life. He was incredibly intelligent and had a talent for whatever he set his mind to. He wrote more and accomplished more than anyone I know, and probably will ever know. He had his faults, I would never deny that, and it is my firm belief that these faults all originated from his feelings of abandonment, doubts of his worth and self destroying nature that pushed him to the very lowest points. There can be no question that he loved all our children dearly, was filled with pride at all they did and strived to make this dangerous world a better place for them to live and thrive. This becomes all the more remarkable given that he came to this country alone, with no relations to help or guide him in this task._

_I wish to make it clear that we want or expect nothing from you. This is not some attempt to pull at your heart and purse strings as though this could ever compensate for the loss of my husband. I simply felt it was my obligation to inform you of this sad event. America has lost its very first secretary of the treasury, and an esteemed member of the military, to name but a select few of his many accomplishments. My children have lost their father and will grow up without him, having only their memories to rely upon. But we, at least, knew him and saw all that he achieved and won and lost in life with our own eyes. If you do grieve for your son, you should as well grieve your many missed opportunities to see the man he grew to be and all the chances that fell at your feet to get to know him. He certainly wished to get to know you, a fact which has recently become very painfully aware to me. Perhaps you both might have benefitted, and not just in a monetary fashion._

_Should you ever find yourself in America, it is my great wish that you should make yourself known to me. You would never be turned away from my doorstep, as I know what my husband's feelings would be on the matter. You have seven grandchildren here who miss their dear father greatly, and it might comfort them to know they have a wider family available to them, however distant._

_With regards, I remain,_  
Your daughter in law,  
Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In real history, James Hamilton died in 1899 and Alexander was aware of this, but I wanted to explore Eliza's feelings on the matter. After all, can it really be a Hamilton story if it doesn't end with Eliza? Also, "justice will be done to the memory of my Hamilton" is a thing she really used to say. You're welcome. 
> 
> If you liked this, hated this, had some feelings, please share them with me! I'd love to hear your thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> Any song lyrics you recognise belong to Lin-Manuel Miranda, and any lines you might vaguely recognise come from letters written by Hamilton himself. If you've never read them, I highly recommend checking them out (my personal favourite, the quote about never breaking a promise to Philip comes from an actual letter he wrote while Philip was off at boarding school). I tried to be as historically accurate as possible, though I had to fudge the timeline a little to fit in Washington's resignation with the story. The rest of the Hamilton children's ages are true, I kept a list beside me while I was writing because goodness did they have a lot of kids. Obviously we don't know a lot about their personalities, really only that Angelica was very like the aunt she was named for, and she completely broke down after Philip's death, so I had to make a lot of it up. In doing so, I developed a total soft spot for Alex Jr...whoops.
> 
> If you liked this/hated this for the emotions, please let me know what you thought!


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